


Abide With Me

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crazy Apocalyptic Shit, Creatures, Disturbing Themes, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, WIP, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 03:37:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London faces a grim fate when power to the city is lost, a great hoard of mutants run rampant, and the city turns to chaos, riots, and martial law. In the midst, Sherlock, John, and their associates are citizens of different camps as the couple grievously contemplates the fate of their partner.</p><p>(Tagged for character death to keep you on your toes, we'll see what happens. Title is from a haunting rendition of the song, which I'm using as an ode from John and Sherlock to each other rather than a religious thing for my own purposes, on the soundtrack for 28 Days Later, my life force.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Post-Crisis - Day 28

  1. _Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;  
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide;  
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,  
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me._
  2. _Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;  
Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away;  
Change and decay in all around I see—  
O Thou who changest not, abide with me.  
  
_



  
_**Post-Crisis – Day 28** _

Sometimes, it was the eerie silence that got to him most. The type of silence that billowed out like a wave, engulfing every bit of his person and sending a dull ache through his bones, from deep within his chest out to the tips of his fingers. It wasn’t much unlike the desert, when between rushes of action it became so silent that the soldiers would swear up and down that the heat itself had a noise that wasn’t playing through anymore, lost in the quiet. Lack of sound elicited from him an immediate feeling of stagnation and anxiety, for at least when there was fighting, he had a fairly sturdy idea of what to do.

John had no idea what to do in the silence.

The feeling of the heavy wood in his hand, a former stool leg that had been forcefully whittled down into something of a makeshift spike that could impale effectively, was keeping him grounded at current. His only weapon, and as a current guard that night, he needed to offer the utmost protection. The group of refugees from Bart’s behind him, numbering near thirty or so, had become part of his responsibility. In almost an instant after the crisis began, John’s body and mind had kicked into autopilot, no longer the John Watson of London recent, but John Watson, doctor and soldier, efficient under duress.

The hospital had been a dreadful, scarring thing for most, himself included. The reports he’d gathered from some of the doctors and nurses in his camp all supported the story that a couple of people came in through a back entrance, movements feral and making every attempt to sink their teeth into the nearest person like a wild animal. Who knew where it started, what they had become, or why their central goal seemed to be to bite off chunks of flesh in some weird, manic cannibalism. The only thing that mattered truly after that point was staying alive. Kill or be killed, throw your neighbor under the proverbial bus and high-tail yourself to safety. It was madness. Sickening, rarely compassionate madness. A load of patients, either too ill or too frightened to move, had been left behind as pieces of meat, fodder for the pseudo-creatures that pounded the halls, turning and multiplying their species in rapidity. Even John, a firm believer in “No Man Left Behind,” was forced to abandon his morals in favor of not perishing, and of protecting those around him who wished to and were capable of living.

He glanced back from his post at the cluster of people behind him, most in the throes of ever-fitful sleep, but some unable to close their eyes for fear of graphic images playing in stark clearness on the backs of their eyelids, a feeling that John understood far too well. Nearest him (always near, always close enough to hear them breathing, it was essential) were the two gently dozing bodies of Molly and Mrs. Hudson. John had shared a cab with Mrs. Hudson on the way to Bart’s, the elderly woman enthusiastic to see a hearing specialist so that she could “hear more things from my boys that I have to pretend I didn’t hear.” He himself had been reluctantly heading to the hospital because Harry had agreed to see an optometrist for her deteriorating vision (a blatant side effect of her excessive drinking) on the condition that her brother accompany her. Briefly, he had considered declining, but there would always be a small, waning part of him that could hope until he could do no more that Harry would straighten out and turn around once she saw what the disease was doing to her.

When relative peace had turned to chaos inside the hospital, he had immediately pulled Harry along with him and made a b-line for the front office of the ENT where he found Mrs. Hudson waiting for him, hands trembling and confused out of her mind, but armed with a potted plant to protect herself. The relative quiet of the office became their post for the next little while.

The trio had met up with a sort of safe harbor of people in a downstairs office a couple of hours later, guarding themselves with their lives, including a refreshingly familiar face in Mike Stamford. John had only just breached the safe hold with the two woman in tow before a thought crossed into his mind and, leaving his companions with the safety of the group, he armed himself with broken chair leg, heading on silent feet toward the morgue. Of course, he had no way of knowing if he would find what he was looking for, if it had even been there that very day or had worse already been torn to bits. But, with a sigh of relief, he had pushed open the door into the half-freezing morgue to find a stunned looking Molly huddled into a corner and surrounded by medical saws and the like, four mutilated bodies scattered across the floor. In the back of his mind, John was pleasantly shocked to find that the shy, timid woman had a good deal of fight and self-defense in her. She had stiffened when he entered, holding out a long pair of scissors in his direction, face solid and chest heaving with adrenaline. It had only taken him a soft murmur of, “Come on, Molly,” for her face to drop and her body to move on instinct, wrapping around John in a quiet sob. He allowed her the longest moment of respite possible before announcing that they needed to move.

His group had managed a good two weeks in a barricaded part of the hospital before food supply ran low and the need to move became priority. While some of the higher ups of the hospital, the few administrators and Mike Stamford included, became the general authority, John had quite easily become involved as a director of doctors and nurses, biting off instructions for the care of the sick and injured patients among them. Molly was first and foremost a friend to him, but also an invaluable utility in the situation, easily able to communicate medical terminology and pass it on to assist John when needed. And, as he was too busy taking care of the health and safety of everyone else, Mrs. Hudson had taken to caring for him, making sure he ate and slept a decent amount under the circumstances.

When the camp attempted their first move, that’s when things got messy. The less able amongst the group were picked off easily from the group, that mournfully including his sight incapable sister. He remembered with discomforting accuracy the details of their last day together. John had been off guard, and spent several quiet hours holding Harry’s trembling hands from withdrawal, attempting to comfort her with soft recollections of their childhood, occasionally pushing back the hair that stuck unceremoniously to her sweating forehead. He knew that she wasn’t well, but the group had to move, there was no choice.

They had become disentwined from each other during the move, something John had barely noticed in his defensive state, but it haunted him from the moment he recognized the piercing scream from the back of the group. He had attempted to turn back for her, though it was apparent from the almost instant flow of blood and lack of movement that it was hopeless, but found himself restrained by Molly and Mike’s capable arms. Sinking to his knees briefly, a quiet sob rang from his throat. His sister. His only sibling; he was supposed to protect her, no matter how much of a nuisance she could be. And he’d completely failed. Molly’s soft words in his ear had brought him back to reality, and with heavy limbs and unaddressed tear tracks on his face he had soldiered on with the rest of them.

They had been settled in their new location, an abandoned grocery store, for near two weeks if he was counting correctly. And the scene was deathly quiet for the time being. He glanced to Mike at his perch on another side of the room, offering a curt nod of solidarity before turning back to gaze out at the dark, abandoned city. The thought that Sherlock would hate to see the streets so dull and quiet passed through his mind.

 _Sherlock._ He sighed softly, rubbing a hand across his suddenly clammy forehead. Guilt had overridden him to the point of nausea. That morning, he’d left Sherlock alone at Baker Street with less than friendly parting words. They’d been in a tiff, and John had already been irritated with the prospect of spending the day with his sister. John hated the silence the most because, lost by himself in it, he only replayed the last images of his partner, his greatest love, brows furrowed in hurt by the words that had slipped through John’s lips in the heat of the moment, words he hadn’t meant. Or perhaps he had, which made him feel even worse. All that mattered was that when his eyes slipped closed and he recalled a picture of soft curls, bright eyes, and sharp features twisted in offense, he wished that he had only said “I love you,” for it was quite likely the final exchange that they would ever have. The thought haunted him in the silence, but he thought of nothing else as he gazed out into the awful haze. 


	2. Post-Crisis - Day 16

**_Post-Crisis – Day 16_ **

Sherlock thought it was absolute, concrete evidence of the end of the very world as he knew it the moment he realized he _missed_ the mindless, vacant chatter of the general public. Hell, Anderson’s drivel was almost (keyword being _almost_ ) preferable to the carnal groans of the half-humans on the street below and their incessant clawing away at the door downstairs, and every other door on the block for that matter. There was a very distinct stench to them as well, a horrible scent that prompted him to give into the temptation of burying his face in a worn, cologne-ridden shirt of his or John’s from time to time, that of decaying carcasses mixed with something more hellish, sour and stinging like vinegar or some other strong acid. A smell which was so prominent to him being that three bodies lay between him and the door downstairs, long dead.

  _As he watched John tug his shoes on from his spot perched upon his designated chair, he noticed with more than a bit of annoyance how the other man was pointedly ignoring both his words and his glance. He huffed._

_“I really do not understand why you continue to humor her,” Sherlock spoke candidly, folding his hands under his chin. “It should be evident by now, even to you, that she isn’t going to change. She’ll drink herself into oblivion before she accepts responsibility.”_

_John had paused only briefly, Sherlock studying the flexing muscles in his neck and tightening of his jaw. “Yeah, well,” He murmured, tying the knot in his shoe with more force than was really necessary, “I’m not going to sit around and let her do that as third party watcher. If she asks for my help, I’m going to help.”_

_“And she’ll continue to take advantage of you and make you feel guilty when she either doesn’t recover, or you refuse her help at some point,” Sherlock shrugged. “It’s a lost cause, John.”_

_The other man stilled before rising from his chair. “I shouldn’t think you would really understand this kind of blind concern,” He mumbled, moving and reaching for his coat._

_“I am perfectly capable of concern,” Sherlock said pointedly, “But not where it’s wasted.”_

_“She’s my_ sister _, Sherlock,” John said. “I’m going to keep worrying about her until one of us dies. That’s what siblings do. I don’t expect you to understand that, I’ve met your brother. But please, would you just try to have a little compassion? It won’t kill you, I promise.”_

 _“But it will kill_ her _,” Sherlock retorted. “You keep giving her attention and she’ll keep warranting it. It’s typical addict behavior.”_

 _“Yeah, maybe it is. In which case,_ you _of all people should be able to scrounge up a little bit of empathy in your calculating heart.”_

_Sherlock frowned, eyes knitting in the middle of his brow. “Sorry, what is that supposed to mean?”_

_“It means,” John started, his chest already heaving in that particular way it did when he was heated, “That you can stop playing at the ‘I have no feeling’ lark. I know you’re capable of it. Stop acting like a prat.”_

_“I am not acting like a prat,” Sherlock said defensively. “I’m acting like a logical human being.”_

_“You’re acting like a bloody machine!” John shouted, near to the end of his tether. He rubbed a hand viciously across his brow as he noted the time on his watch. “I don’t have time for this right now. You sit here and sulk like an entitled git, I’ll go try to offer up enough kindness for the both of us.”_

_Sherlock, stunned by the outburst, watched John leave with no protest, angry at his lack of understanding and offended by his insults, before marching over to the couch to flop himself down into a proper strop._

_He had drifted off into an irritated slumber by the time the attacks made their way to him personally. Initially, the distant scratching sound that had woken him was one he’d thought to have been of an animal of some kind, no doubt having made its way into his cabinets or the storage downstairs. Groggily, and with an irritated huff, Sherlock had stood with every intention of scaring the thing off._

_That was, until, he had heard the groaning._

_Confusion etched in excess on his face, he quietly unhooked the latch on the window and leaned out to peer over the street. The sight he found offered no more of an explanation. Bloodied humans in clusters were dragging themselves over the pavement, some with injuries so grave that they shouldn’t have been able to take a breath, much less be capable of carrying themselves. Each let out a series of feral sounds, and with wide eyes he’d watched a neighbor attempting to make a mad dash out of his home, only to be swarmed by the at least half-conscious things. Sherlock Holmes was no stranger to violence, but watching the mindless, instinctually and not intellectually motivated way that teeth sunk in and pulled away flesh unsettled him greatly._

_It was then that he registered the pounding of the front door swinging against the wall. Frenzied, he dove for the couch, pressing a hand into the cushions and retrieving John’s pistol. He perched himself there, clicking off the safety of the gun and lying in wait. Putting the first bullet through a creatures head interesting him greatly. It seemed as if their deteriorated state softened them, and where as a normal headshot from a pistol at such a range would leave just a hole, it almost seemed to deflate them, the entire front plate of the first creatures skull caving in as little more than mush as the bullet struck it._

_As creatures two and three went down, Sherlock knew that attempting to leave the flat at the moment was useless, and set about construction a barricade at the top landing of the stairs, heaving his dresser, bedside table, and even his own chair in front of the door. He spun John’s chair around facing the entrance and placed himself upon it, gun cocked and aimed at the door with no movement for far longer than he cared to admit._

Sherlock supposed a person of normal needs and eating habits couldn’t have survived as long as he did in the flat. But the food supply that would last someone like John five days at best had sufficed him for sixteen days, and he still maintained an excess of water. All in all, the last couple of weeks hadn’t been that bad, compared to what it could have been. The makeshift barricade had held strong, and the side of their building would have been relatively hard to scale in top condition, much less in the battered and sometimes limb deficient condition of the creatures below. His time alone had been relatively uneventful; no more bullets wasted, nothing broken, just him, a bit of nourishment, and the sour, stinging scent of the festering creatures inside his flat.

He’d found that once dead (for the second time; he’d been spectator to many-a-neighbor’s death and reanimation from his perch at the window), the creatures tended to decay just as rapidly, if not more so, than a human corpse. The decay process was an oddly familiar comfort to him, something he could watch and predict and apply years worth of research to. But that was, perhaps, the only bit of logic he could find in the world around him. That was the kicker for him, the thing that set off his mind into bouts of worry: the pure lack of reasoning and logic. As if centuries of humanity had just reverted into a warped cannibalism with the introduction of whatever had turned the once-humans into what lay before him. Every moment he’d spent studying human behavior, deducing people’s actions and weaknesses, was completely and utterly useless. A straight-forward world had turned into something more complicated, and something he hadn’t adapted to. As had happened only a handful of times in his life, Sherlock Holmes was _scared_.

He wondered if John, steadfast and calm as could be under pressure John, was scared, too. Did he adapt quickly, familiar with the unreasonable combat of a warzone, or did he question the abundance of humanity supplied to him with being a doctor? Were his actions driven with emotion, or with the stern, efficient mannerisms of a soldier? Was he protecting himself, or protecting others? First and foremost, was he alive? No, he had to be. This was _John_. John wasn’t careless, reckless like Sherlock. If anyone were to survive this, it would be him. But what if he had been taken off guard, caught defenseless? Did he die protecting someone whose life he valued above his own? Did he die screaming, or silently in stride? Did he think of Sherlock at all in his last moments, about how he wish they hadn’t rowed? Did he become one of these creatures who killed for nothing, something he would have despised?

Sherlock shook his head. He couldn’t assume him dead, he absolutely couldn’t. Even Sherlock, the cold, analytical-but-brilliant mind of the century, needed to have a hope to hold to.

Deciding it was time to move on from the flat, find somewhere to obtain more food, he dashed into their bedroom momentarily to retrieve an item (a highly sentimental one, he thought, judging himself) and squeezing it gently before putting it in place upon his person. He located John’s spare clips for the gun and threw them into a messenger bag that he then slung across his shoulder. Moving back into the kitchen, he piled in as many bottles of water to the bag as he could without weighing himself down too badly, as well as his remaining fiber bars. Picking up the whittled table leg that he’d perfected to a point, he glanced out the window. Clearer than usual, though there was unmistakable movement just outside his door. He’d have to risk it. With a great amount of effort, he disassembled his barricade before treading slowly down the stairs. As he flung open the door, ready to attack to kill, he was greeted with a sight he never thought he’d find a comfort, only as repulsive as these creatures themselves.

The man that stood there was of obvious wealth, though his suit jacket was missing, leaving him in trousers, waistcoat, and a torn white button-up, obviously once the spitting image of success. His high forehead was sprinkled with smudged blood that quite obviously did not belong to him, and though his hand gripped at an elongated, razor-sharp, curiously handled sword (obviously previously concealed within something less conspicuous), a pistol was tucked away at the back of his trousers, just behind the drop of his own bag draped across him. His breath heaved, but his muscles seemed almost instantly relaxed as his eyes dropped over Sherlock’s figure. Sherlock would hardly admit that his own did the same.

“Brother,” Mycroft spoke between pants, voice laced with a rare tinge of emotion. “You’re alive. Excellent. Let me in for a moment, and then we need to move.”


End file.
